Brace yourself; this might be the strangest blog post yet. Spirituality can break out at any time and in the oddest of ways. The story is about a powerful meditation I had in a compost toilet while looking at a painting of a red chicken by an artist friend named Pam White. For an hour or so, the toilet was a chapel. It helped.

As I wrote yesterday, on Monday, I had one of the worst panic attacks in my life Monday, and into the night, I thought my whole creative life was about to get shut down. I decided to approach my panic and anxiety differently. The fear inside of me will never be gone entirely, but I can do a much better job of controlling it. It’s like diabetes. It has no cure, but it can be managed if you work at it. I’ve been managing it closely and well for a long time.

Something failed inside of me on Monday.

The first step in my mind was to contemplate my life and meditate on my fear, to go deep and to the roots of it, and to confront that panic by digging deeper and understanding better. The deep breathing exercises all the shrinks are talking about have worked on me as well as on Maria.

First, Maria has a nasty ear infection and is on antibiotics.

She needed to sleep last night, and I needed to meditate in a more serious and committed way.

This attack was frightening and unexpected. It was also, as usual, based on a lie I was telling myself – that I was in danger of losing everything. A couple of months ago, we installed a compost toilet in the upstairs bedroom so we would only have to keep running up and down stairs at night to go to the bathroom. We were trying to think ahead.

I was going downstairs, but I looked over at our quaint little toilet and wondered if it wouldn’t be good to sit on it. I don’t know why; I am just drawn to the space; it seems like a small retreat.

I am still determining where that idea came from, but our compost toilet called to me.

I was shocked to come to love this toilet. It works well, has no odor, and is easy to maintain. The little bathroom we built around it is tiny, cozy, and quiet. I like it in there. I love the darkness and the smell of the wood. I decided to sit on the toilet and do my meditation.

It is warm and calm, the perfect place to meditate and focus on the things I want to focus on. Thomas Merton would have loved it there—or freaked right out.

Our little farmhouse is noisy—dogs, donkeys, sheep, trucks, and birds at the feeder, all kinds of sounds.

(My new meditation chapel. The truth is stranger than fiction, yes.)

I sat down, turned on the small light Maria had installed, and was surprised to see in front of me a painting of a red hen I had bought from my friend Pam White, a very gifted artist. Maria, ever thoughtful,  hung it up for me as a surprise.

The bedroom was dark. The toilet is odorless, but thanks to the moss, it smells like pine trees outdoors.

Maria was asleep. When I came in, Zinnia came over to lie in front of the bathroom door. It was peaceful and quiet there; nothing could distract or interrupt me. It was a wonderful place for meditating.

I felt safe there, enveloped in monastic silence. I didn’t realize how important that is. I began doing the breathing exercises I’ve been listening to: inhale 1 2 3 4, hold 1 and 2, exhale 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8. I was getting anxious when  I came in, and to my surprise, the meditation gurus were correct. I could feel my heart and body slow down and calm down. I sat in that bathroom for an hour. I hadn’t disturbed Maria; my faithful dog was outside the door. My faithful wife was snoring softly in her bed across the room.

I felt strong when I left that little bathroom; the panic was gone. I know there is no magic wand for fear; I’ve been wrestling with it my whole life. This was a good idea.

I came out feeling that something inside of me had changed just a bit. I don’t kid myself. I will never be totally without fear, but I know I can bring it down to manageable levels. Other people have done it; I thought I was one of those people. I am still in progress.

I know I’ve promised to be open on the blog, but I never imagined meditating in a small toilet in a darkened room with a painting of a red hen hanging over me like a statue of one of the prophets.

This is what I love about life: if you keep your eyes and ears open, you will see some fantastic and previously unimaginable things sooner or later. I’m going back there tonight. I’ll say a prayer to the chicken. Maria was a little surprised when I told her the chicken might be sacred.

She took it in stride since she had just come in thrilled and excited because she had seen two worms mating in the gross. I don’t think anything can surprise her anymore.